


For want of a cape

by PsychoMIME



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gang Violence, Gangs, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, South Africa, Vigilantism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 00:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3875854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychoMIME/pseuds/PsychoMIME
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story came about because of an exercise where I ask a friend for a title and genre.  My friend came up “For want of a cape” and Superheroes/Vigilantes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For want of a cape

“If I could be a god of anything, I’d be a god of Potential,” a friend told me many years ago.

When you cut it all down, when you strip away all pretense, all we are, are bunch of shaved monkeys.  Barely halfway up the evolutionary ladder, we pretend that we have arrived.  In the great scheme things, we only yesterday became self-aware.  We like to pretend that we are civilized, that we respect our fellow man, but if we did, I wouldn’t be here right now.

I wouldn’t be pulling a mask over my face, dressed in a costume that distracts people from noticing the real me, instead making them focus on the Idea.  We’ve been brainwashed to look for saviours, larger than life individuals, who will save us from our from our miserable existence.  As my life caved in around me, I looked for my saviour -a hero to sweep in at the last moment- and no one came.

The dull knock of my fist on the bullet proof vest, reminds me that it’s always better to be prepared.  If I had one of these when they broke in, instead of my boxers and #1 Dad shirt, things might have been different.  The police called it a house breakin gone wrong.  Gone wrong indeed, they left me for dead, but finished the job properly for everyone I cared about.  The police apparently didn’t have enough evidence to convict.

My grip tightens around the handle of the bat, the solidness of the wood, strengthening my resolve.  I check the pistols holstered about my person, making sure that my spare clips are secured.  The figure staring back at me from the mirror can’t be me.  He’s a figure from all those superhero movies my boys dragged me to.  Unlike me, this figure seizes his potential, he is making a difference.  He is making the change.

The thought occurs me, why do things always need to go wrong, before we make a change?  If I gave to one of those charities, that try to take kids off the street, to help them realise their potential, would it have a difference?  Would whomever is behind those things, be the saviour of those kids?  Or would they just waste all of that potential, like all us do on a daily basis?

No more.  The bike roars to life as I slip into the road.  The headlight guiding my way as I weave my way through the city streets, past more people simply moving along, letting life pass them them by.  Past streetwalkers and drug dealers, each offering a moment’s respite from the pangs of a wasted life, not one a part of the solution, each tying us down even further.  My helmet hides my mask and my disgust as I pass them by.  My overcoat flapping behind like the forgotten pamphlets,  whipped up in the eddies of my passing.

I hide the bike down a quiet alleyway, a few blocks away from my target.  Removing the helmet, I pull out a cap from my pocket and conceal the bat under my overcoat.  I keep my head down and stay in the shadows.  Those I pass in the street pay me no heed, as I make my way further on foot.  The derelict apartment building looms ahead like countless others on this street, light from the street lights pool in puddles, fighting to keep the darkness at bay.

The biggest of the two goons guarding the entrance, moves up to block my way.  I let my coat fall open and reveal the bat in my right hand.  His eyes instinctively drop to the threat and my left hand darts up, jamming two fingers into his eyes.  The curses begin to stream from his mouth, I bring my left hand back down, grip the bat firmly in both hands and bring it down with a satisfying crack onto his skull.  The curses are cut short short, he drops to his knees and before finally keeling over.  His partner reaches for something inside his jacket.  I calmly step forward, bring the bat up with an underhanded swing, right between the legs, cause him to double over.  He stumbles backward, into the glass door restricting my access to the building.  I rain down blow after blow on him, the reinforced glass behind him, cracking into millions of little pieces.  It finally gives away, his body falling backwards in a rain of tiny shards.

Blood and adrenaline rush to my head, as I step over the fallen body into the entryway.  My vision narrows and I notice the stairs leading up.  Tossing the bat to the side, I send it scattering over the tiled floor as I make my way towards them.

I wrestle the pistol free from its holster.  My heart drums in my ears, my other senses sharpening to almost painful intensity. A gang banger steps in front of me, as I take the first step, a quick, snap shot drops him and I continue up to the first floor.

Quiet.  The next floor, quiet.

They were supposed to be holed up on the third floor.  An abandoned mop lies in the empty hallway.  I pick it up, plant my cap firmly on top and wrap my overcoat around it.  Rounding the corner up the stairs, I can see the landing of the third floor.  I move the makeshift decoy before me and slowly crawl up the steps, before flicking it up like a target.

The roar of gunfire is deafening in the confined space.

My ears ring as the bullets stop and I raise myself, like an avenging angel, first taking one, then two of them down.  The third one’s hands are shaking as it tries to reload it’s gun.  I put it out of its misery, before turning my attention to the door they were guarding, the numbers on the door showing 303.

I announce my presence with quick, double rap on the door and flatten myself against the wall, next to the door.  A muffled voice behind door, tries to determine who’s there, before opening up with gunshots through the door.  The slugs whistling through the air where I stood moments ago, and embed themselves in the wall on the other side.  After what feels like forever the shredded door opens and a piece of scum steps into the hallway.  As it looks in my direction, it looks straight into the barrel of my gun.  I recognise it from that fateful night and squeeze the trigger, drawing in my breath, waiting for the sweet release.  The bullet rips through its head and one of those who wronged me and mine, staggers back a few feet before falling over dead.

Stepping into the room, I’m greeted by a shaking gun behind a couch.  The voice behind it, trying to project some bravado and failing miserably.  I step around and see the one who gave the orders to kill me and my family, begging for his life.  For a moment, he looks just like my eldest, his whole life before him.  I pause.  He fires.  The pain causes me to stagger back into the wall and slide down.  I blink and the next thing I know, he’s standing over me, gloating.  My mask gripped in his left hand and I swallow down the mixture of blood and spit, tighten my hand and feel the rough grip of the pistol  in my palm.

I whip the weapon up and fire.

I don’t stop until I stand over him and know he’s dead.  I look at the boy dead at my feet, the blood pooling on the floor around him.  Behind me the the police burst into the room.  The officer shouts something about dropping my weapon.  As I turn to face this small man, the only thought in my head is: “How dare they?  I did what they never could.  I made the bastards pay.”

The bullet bites into my skull and everything goes white.  My last thoughts are of my life, my wife, my boys, the dead boys by the door, in halfway and in this room.  All those lives cut short.

All that potential, wasted.


End file.
